John Casey, Man of Many Faces
by Amilyn
Summary: Drabbles: 1 Casey tags along on a camping trip with Chuck, Devon and the frat guys. 2 Some holidays are nostalgic, even for John Casey. 3 Fanfic writing. 4 Things heat up on Sarah and Bryce's first mission. No content to warn for.
1. Emeril, Eat Your Heart Out

Emeril, Eat Your Heart Out

by Amy L. Hull amilynh at comcast dot net

drabble written for Fia Reynne in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge

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When Chuck squeaked that he was going to Awesome's frat campout, Casey growled.

The trip elicited Casey's entire repertoire of grunts. Hiking to frat songs was four and six. Staking tents: seven. Collecting firewood: one. Starting the fire: two, three, and a lecture on fire safety on national land.

Then Casey's manner turned practically reverent as he took over dinner preparation to a chorus of "Awesome activity, man."

Chuck just stared as Casey actually smiled while instructing everyone in open-fire grilling, cooking aluminum-foil-wrapped food in hot coals, and the art of the perfectly sharpened stick for the perfectly roasted marshmallow.

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	2. Appreciation

Appreciation

by Amy L. Hull amilynh at comcast dot net

drabble written for imperviousness in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge

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"Hey, Casey!"

A lip curled in that way that made him look like an angry guard dog.

Chuck held up his hands and stepped back. "Whoa! Down, boy,"

"What's with him?" Morgan pointed, then yawned.

"Maybe he's bummed about working a boring and menial retail job on Memorial Day after years of serving his country with honor." Chuck maintained direct eye contact.

"Dude, you served?"

Casey frowned, tilting his head, then he slowly met Morgan's hand for a high five.

Chuck squeezed Casey's shoulder. "You may get that from some of the others. My suggestion? Don't quibble about verb tense."

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	3. Fanfic Will Ruin Your Childhood

Fanfic Will Ruin Your Childhood

by Amy L. Hull, amilynh at comcast dot net

For Cereta's Grading Hell Theater, cartoon research assisted by Merlin Missy

Drabble, referencing the Yuletide Fic Exchange

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After that first Yuletide, Chuck never asked what Morgan offered.

Morgan blurted out his assignment with glee.

Chuck grimaced. "Did you have to? Really? I loved _He-Man_ and _Thundercats_."

"It's _Yuletide_. No holds barred." Morgan leaned close. "And there are holds. And bars."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, yeah." Morgan grinned.

"That would never work. Also? _Not_ a mental image I needed."

"Wait'll you see what I'm doing for the Marvel exchange."

"No. You... Morgan, just go home."

"Fine. Go back to your 80s spy story." Morgan stepped through the window. "Talk about far-fetched." He waved and was gone.

"Far-fetched. You'd think."

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	4. Perfection

Perfection

by Amy L. Hull

written for misura in the LJ Help_Haiti fundraiser

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Bryce leaned against the bar. His white tux was dapper. Ice clinked as he sipped his scotch. He smiled the crooked, rakish grin he and Chuck and a million other boys modeled on Indiana Jones and practiced in front of a mirror.

Across the room the new agent danced. Her deep purple dress had sequins that highlighted her figure. She stayed near their mark and economized every sway and gyration of her assets.

Her eyes cast about the room with precision, disdain peering through mascaraed lashes. She offered him a sideways glance that weakened his knees.

He shook his head, mentally reciting CIA tactics the way some men might logarithms.

He stared openly in a way, he realized later, that could have compromised the mission. Instead it meant he saw her impossibly blue eyes lock onto his, blink slowly, just once, before she raised her eyebrows. Go. That meant go.

He was still reciting tactics.

This became instantly more arousing as knives appeared in her hands, unbelievably, from the perfect lines of her perfect gown leaving her perfect hands in perfect throws, every move perfectly deadly. The thunk of knives and falling bodies, the report of gunfire, shouts in several languages, and the rhythmic tap of the woman's high heels filled the air.

Training and adrenaline took over and Bryce acted in concert with the choreographed movements of the purple windmill of projectiles, leaping past or disarming bodyguards and enemy spies. He stripped the cufflinks and tie-tack imbedded with the secret plan chips while she retrieved the reader.

He stared at her creamy thigh, then at the purple fabric slinking back into place as she stood. He swallowed. He turned and could feel the heat from her back through his jacket as they covered the room. In moments they secured exits and were on their way to their rendezvous point.

Hours later, she offered him a sideways glance as the purple and sequins slithered down the perfect lines of her figure. She slid his shirt from his shoulders and tossed it aside, swaying against him, every move deadly and precise, economized and arousing.

Bryce looked at the creamy expanse of thighs above him. He swallowed. Tactics. Reciting tactics. It was rule number one: spies don't fall in love.

But there were no CIA tactics to combat this kind of woman. He knew he was going to drown in her perfection.

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End file.
